


A Little Less Conversation

by Skeppsbrott



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Asshole Cronus Ampora, Closeted Character, F/M, M/M, Outing, POV Third Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, cronus ampora gets read to filth, fiftiesstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9588647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott
Summary: There are times when Cronus Ampora feels it in his bones that he's something special. That he, and Dirk, and Meenah, and Porrim, and Rufioh, and even Eridan, are all part of something bigger. There are times that he feels the history of the future running through his veins. No matter how much his father tries to convince him otherwise, there's just enough evidence that no, this generation of youth is somehow different.Most of the time, Cronus is just trying to live his life, but then there are times when that sensation becomes almost painfully present. Sometimes, changing the radio station is enough to ignore it, but when this symptom of the history-to-be lands right in his lap, it isn't as easy.As Dirk would say; the person Cronus wants to be would grab this bull by the horns and ride that high of youth rebellion into oblivion. Key word being "would".--Ambiguously set in USA in 1958. I am not an american in 1958, and so - though I've tried to stay true to the era - this fic is more concerned with understanding feeling and setting rather than getting all the details correct down to a T. Hopefully you will enjoy it just as much as I enjoyed rolling around in 1950's Americana.





	1. Prologue - Dream Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't make me dream alone  
> I beg you don't make me dream alone  
> No, I don't wanna dream

Cronus is a cowboy. At least he’s pretty sure he’s a cowboy. Dirk is not a cowboy, but Cronus isn’t sure what he is aside from warm and letting Cronus rest his head in his lap, his fingers in Cronus’ dark hair. He’s already tried to explain to Dirk that it’s very important that they sell off their surplus supply of chairs, but Dirk doesn’t seem to listen, and somehow that’s kind of reassuring. He brushes his hand over Dirk’s naked skin and looks up, realizing he’s still wearing the stupid shades. Women’s cat eye sunglasses. Cronus hates those. When he reaches up to remove them, Dirk’s hand closes around his wrist.

“Easy there, daddy-o.”

He’s mad. He’s so mad - he can have everything, but not this? So Cronus sits up, grabbing Dirk by the shades, removing them. Staring back at him is nothing. An absolute lack of face, of Dirk. A void of dreamspace. Dirk kisses him. Cronus wants to scream, but doesn’t.

* * *

The scent of pancakes and tobacco pulls Cronus out of the uneasy state of being almost awake, almost not dreaming. The blanket is on the floor, and from the kitchen he can hear the radio. He lies still for a few minutes, letting go of the last remnants of the dream (probably for the better), trying to decipher what time it is from the muffled radio programming. Outside of his room is the hallway, which is shared with Eridan’s room and their father’s study. There’s a door at the end, separating it from the kitchen and the dining room. When that door opens, the scents become more prominent and the radio more audible. Either Eridan just got up, or his father is trying to lure him into the kitchen. If it is the latter, it works.

In the kitchen, Eridan is reading, slowly making his way through a plate of scrambled eggs and pancakes. Cronus reads the title on the top of the page from upside down; Jules Verne. Their father is smoking by the window, wearing an apron and listening to the radio. The radio host is interviewing...someone, about the consequences of a politician in Arkansas closing the public schools to protest the process of desegregation. Cronus recognizes the in-depth news program's host. Nine thirty to eleven, followed by the radio service. He can’t be bothered to listen; the entire ordeal just seems overplayed to him.

Eridan looks up at Cronus as he stacks sausage and pancakes onto his plate. Their father acknowledges his presence with a "good morning". Cronus nods and sits down. He’d dreamt something, hadn’t he? Something about him and Dirk being cowboys, travelling to sell… to sell something? He flips through the already cherry-picked pile of letters and newspapers laying on the table from the past few days. A postcard from grandma and Sicily, some old newspapers… a letter to Eridan. Jackpot.

 

It’s addressed to Eridan using all capitalized lettering, and has already been opened. He turns the letter in his hands, making note of the stamps, all featuring queen whatever her name is. Sender by name of Karkat. Nice. He pulls out the actual letter written by Eridan’s penpal, but by now Eridan has noticed him and quickly snatches the paper from Cronus’ hands before he’s managed to read any more than “ _ CLEARLY NOT VALUING YOU. ANYWAY, IN REGARDS TO YOUR THOUGHTS ON ’THE PRINCE AND THE SHOWGIRL’; SINCERELY, FU _ ”.

“That’s a federal crime, you know,” Eridan hisses. Cronus shoves a piece of sausage into his mouth. “Dad, Cro is reading my mail!”

Dominic Ampora looks up briefly, but Cronus interrupts him before he’s even said anything. “It was already opened. If he don’t want people to reading it maybe he shouldn’t leave it on the cruddy kitchen table.”

 

Their bickering is cut short when their father steps in, reprimanding Cronus who values his Sunday enough not to argue back. Eridan huffs and shoves the letter between the pages of the book in front of him. Cronus resists the urge to bring up that time he caught Eridan sneaking out with Vriska, but he might need to be able to fan up that storm some other time, for when he’s actually in trouble. For now, the light of early fall cast warm shadows into the kitchen, and he’s man enough to admit when he’s just looking for trouble. He’s slept well, but is still feeling restless. On the radio, Sunday service begins. He doesn’t really listen to the words, rarely does, but there’s a familiarity to the way priests speak, to the way the acoustics of a church translate to radio. Usually, he finds it comforting. The scent of pancakes, bacon, coffee and tobacco. The three of them, alone and silently enjoying - or just tolerating - each others’ company. The radio service. Like it's exactly how they were intended to exist in this universe, rather than a constellation made out of necessity.

 

A few years back - maybe two, maybe five, Cronus can’t remember - his father asked him if he missed going to church. Cronus said no. It had felt like the right thing to say. He wasn’t stupid, none of his friends at the time had divorced parents, and he knew that getting married was a matter of forever or not at all. Especially to the priests and the old women at church, who turned up their noses at “today’s youth, changing sweethearts more frequently than they get their hair cut”. At the time it felt strange to break the routine, but days like these, Cronus is happier than not that his father no longer expects him to go. There’s something about him today that feels dirty, for lack of a better term. Shameful, maybe. It’s an itch that breaks the illusion of peace, so only halfway through the service Cronus gets up.

His father re-stuffs his pipe, eyes following Cronus' movement. “Do you have someplace to be?” Eridan looks up from his book.

“It’s new record day. Me and the gang were gonna meet up and check it out.”

“You have a gang?” Eridan snorts from behind him, quickly hiding it with a cough as Cronus turns to shoot him a glare.

“No one you don’t know. You want me to name everyone every single time?” His father gives him one of those looks. Cronus sighs, trying hard not to roll his eyes. “Mituna, Porrim, Aranea, Meenah… Maybe Kankri. Probably not Kankri, he’s as square as-” He meets his fathers eyes and realizes he’s derailing. “Latula… Rufioh, maybe. Dirk.”

 

Dominic Ampora is not a fan of a fair share of Cronus’ friends. He’s not a fan of Rufioh, whose clothes are never new and who is suspiciously tan. He’s not a fan of Porrim, who wears figure-hugging pants and sweaters. He’s not a fan of the crude and hard-to-impress Mituna. Most notably, he’s not a fan of Dirk. He’s not a fan of the fact that Dirk lives alone with his brother, and he’s not a fan of said pro-integration, beatnik, capital A “Artiste” brother. He’s not a fan of how little time it took for Dirk and Cronus to become such close friends. Cronus has no idea what the big deal is. Dirk is a smart guy, he's well behaved even if he's a radical, and he's not even _that_ radical. If he were to ask, perhaps his father would say something about the terror of the passage of time; of how suddenly his sons' closest friends are people he has no idea who they are. Or perhaps he wouldn't be quite so truthful. Assuming Cronus even were to ask, which - of course - he wouldn't.

Dominic puffs slowly on his pipe. Cronus feels that unexplained shame and restlessness gnawing at him again, creating heat at the back of his neck. “On a Sunday?”

 

Behind him, Eridan closes the book and leaves the room. 

* * *

Dirk’s radio turns on. He glances over, noting to himself that the timer is clearly not working as well as he’d hoped. What a pain. He would fix it, but he’s just so tired. Exhausted. He's not sure what time it is, but he can without a doubt say that it's not yet seven. Or maybe his grip of time is worse than he thought. From the ceiling, James Dean observes him, looking his best on the Rebel Without a Cause poster. Dirk observes him back, just like he’s done all night, save an hour here or there. His brother stole the poster from a movie theatre back when it was still playing, and Dirk, in his turn, stole it from him. He hasn’t actually seen the movie. He wishes he had, but he never had the chance, and he’ll just have to deal with that.

Aside from the gospel choir tuning in and out on the radio, the house is quiet. No surprises there.

 

Cronus asked him to come by today, but with maybe two hours of proper sleep he’s not sure if he’s ready to deal with that. Specifically, he's not sure he's ready to deal with Cronus’ group of friends. Nothing against any of them personally, except perhaps Aranea. It’s just that Cronus becomes strangely unfamiliar around them, like he’s trying to impress someone. When the two of them are alone, Dirk finds him to be more at ease. He prefers that Cronus, at least as far as his friend goes. Then again, Cronus the Publicity Peacock has an air of confidence, faked or not. Dirk almost finds himself noting that it’s an attractive look, but pushes the thought aside.

The radio make another distressed noise, and turns into static. He rolls over and unplugs it, in case something’s failed real badly. Before pulling back, his eyes pause at the photo on the bedside. Him, Roxy, Jane and Jake.

It's a posed picture, Dave had been the one to take it - none of the studios had wanted to. Most commonly the excuse was something about it being difficult to expose for both light and dark skin. His chest stings a little when he looks at the picture for too long. Instead, he rolls back into his bed, on his back. Soon enough, Roxy will probably call him. Dirk looks up at the ceiling. James Dean looks back at him. Despite never getting the chance to see his movies, there’s something about him that brings Dirk a great comfort. He closes his eyes again, focusing on the weight of his body against the mattress.


	2. Wild Wild Young Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They try to make a big point of acting like a fool  
> Hanging out in the juke joints trying to be real cool  
> They're bound to come to some bad end  
> Wild wild young men

“He’s such a hypocrite.” Cronus scans the jukebox list, idly tapping the leather of his belt with the tips of his fingers. “He knows I know that he listens to jazz, like this is so much different. Just ‘cause they don’t got words most of the time don’t mean you don’t hear it’s black music. Bet he danced too, pretty sure that’s how he and mom met.” Meenah doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow. “But I guess that’s different ‘cause we were in wartime or whatever. Because potential nuclear winter doesn’t make a cat anxious and in need of some stress relief at all. Did she say they got new Buddy Holly or did I mishear?”

The Everly Brothers’ silky voices are allowed to fill the air of the café with little to no interruption. Cronus straightens up to look at Meenah. She stretches the gum she’s been chewing between her lips and her fingers. The pink of the gum matches her nail varnish. “Beats me. Probably meant he’s got an upcoming release or somethin’. Just go with someone who’s not a complete wuss instead.” This time it’s Cronus’ turn to give her a questioning look. “Anyway,” Meenah continues, “still let you go, didn’t he?”

Cronus sighs and scans the song list again. “Sure,” he says, putting in a coin for Jerry Lee Lewis, “not like he could’ve done anything without coming off like the most buzzkill man in the world. None of you are bad enough on your own to warrant a ban, and he can’t straight up kick me from hanging with my friends.” Meenah’s hand slides over his hip and he looks up with a smirk. “What are you trying to say, kitten?”

He takes a moment to look her over; the men’s jeans with folded cuffs, the designer glasses and the trendy, short haircut; the gold chain resting in the cleavage of her blouse. “I’m not sayin’ anythin’. Still surprised he don’t mind me, tho’. I’ve been tryin’ real hard, but no cigar” Cronus snorts, and leans in to kiss her. Before he can catch more than a whiff of her sweet bubblegum breath, she’s headed back to their table again in a flurry of pink. 

Pink nails, pink blouse, pink glasses, and pink car parked outside. She got it custom for her birthday - a fuschia Cadillac Eldorado. He kinda loves it. He kinda loves her, as evident by his heartbeat and the tightness of his chest as he watches her take back her seat at the crowded table. Meenah doesn’t even have to say anything; her presence alone could part the red sea. Cronus is hardly proud of the things he’d hypothetically give up for her sake.

 

This is a different kind of peace than the one at Sunday breakfast. A different warmth, more electricity than fireside. They’re all squeezed to fit at the table by the window; Latula in Mituna’s lap, telling crude jokes to Aranea, who’s laughing along despite the rather prudish way her blouse is buttoned all the way up. Rufioh, smelling of oil and stuffing himself with burgers, occasionally catching the most casual of Porrims attention across the table. Her focus is drifting - Cronus can tell. She’s flipping through the magazine on the table in front of her, though with the way she lingers at pages with next to nothing to read, Cronus could bet money on her being more interested in Latula. Or more specifically, Latula talking about some recent happenings in the girl’s baseball team she’s trying to start. Cronus can’t bring himself to care about that, idly looking out over the parking lot instead. Meenah’s car is parked just outside, next to his own darling black Chevy Bel Air. It’s pretty symptomatic; they look great together. She fits snugly under his arm, a full head shorter than him but just as proud, if not moreso. Aranea says something that he doesn’t catch, and Meenah shrugs off Cronus’ arm, leaning forward over the table. “God, I freakin’  _ hate _ this song,” she says.

 

\---

 

There’s tension between them. He doesn’t know how to describe it any other way. There’s always been tension, starting back when she’d kick him in preschool until he’d give up the fire truck with the extendable ladder, but this is different. Obviously. Somewhere along the line they’d both figured out why the hell you’d want to stick your tongue down someone else’s mouth; what was previously the disgusting whims of adults suddenly became a pivotal desire. Whenever they accidentally touch, Cronus feels a rush of heat. The way she always loses her focus for the briefest of moments afterwards, tells him something similar happens to her. 

He take a deep breath, and his lungs fill with her sweet perfume and the scent of new car interior. It is happening tonight. What  _ it  _ is, exactly, he’s not sure about yet, but  _ something has to happen  _ tonight. Life continuing on like nothing has changed isn’t an option anymore. 

He wishes she wasn’t smoking right now. It’s like he can’t even wait a minute and he can’t for the life of him understand how she can  _ bear  _  looking at the drive-in screen. Eventually, Cronus can’t stand it any more, and kisses her. She slaps him, right across the face. He looks at her, hand up on the now flushing skin of his cheek, holding his breath. They’re both silent, waiting for the other to make a move. Waiting for the other moviegoers to pause, turn to look at them. No one does. On the screen someone makes the grave mistake of leaving the experiment alone in the lab. “Well, what the  _ hell _ did you  _ expect? _ ” Cronus hisses under his breath. His face is hot. She doesn’t answer, but she does kiss him again, her fingers gripping his hair tight and thoroughly messing it up.

 

\---

 

Cronus wonders when Dirk will show up, if he shows up at all. He’s like a strange little satellite to their crowd, showing up when Cronus asks nicely, not really saying anything but listening with a stoic expression as the rest of them speak. To be fair, the people currently present have all been familiar with each other since long before Dirk even lived here. Cronus idly fidgets with Meenah’s hair, only to have her swat his hand away without as much as a glance in his direction. He looks up, and meets Porrim’s eyes. “You want to lend me money for a soda, Cronus?”

He blinks. “What? Oh, uh. Sure, kitten, my wallet is-” Porrim kicks at one of his legs under the table and stands up. Meenah briefly glances in his direction before turning back to the conversation with Latula that has now moved on to the national league. Cronus stands up, following Porrim to the fridge by the counter.

 

“Did you two fight again?”

“No. Why’s it matter to you?”

“Sure you didn’t. And it matters the same way you keep asking if I’m interested in Rufioh.”

Cronus makes a face. “But it’s so  _ obvious _ .” Porrim repays him with an expression of bored disbelief. “I’m not stupid. He’s a handsome guy. If I was a gal, I’d- Look, sugar, we haven’t fought. Or at least  _ I  _ haven’t. But she’s been giving me a real hard time as of late, beats me why.”

“Enough with the pet names, Cronus. Did you talk to her?”

 

Cronus takes a moment to look at her. She crosses her arms. He catches himself thinking that they’d make an even better pair than him and Meenah. They’ve known each other for just as long, and while Meenah’s idea of rebellion is hot pink everything and wearing men’s clothes, Porrim’s is to look like she walked straight out of young Hollywood and to put newspaper clippings about Rosa Parks on her bedroom door. A feminine to his masculine, maybe. But that’s all objective observations, and not actually relevant to how he feels about her. Or Meenah. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t on some level enjoy having a scratched up back. Porrim snaps her fingers, her nails elegantly filed and manicured, instead of just clipped and sloppily painted. “Cronus.”

“I- look, I  _ wish  _ it was that easy. You don’t go out with her, you don’t know. It’s not like she’s the kinda girl to be all sweet words and giggles to begin with. Maybe she’s getting bored with me or something, who knows. Girl’s impossible, honestly.”

“Bored? I can’t  _ imagine _ .” She picks out a bottle from the fridge, the glass clinking as the bottles behind it move. “Where are you today? Because you’re not here, that’s for sure.”

He reaches for his wallet, but before he’s managed to get it out, Porrim has already paid for and opened the bottle. “It’s been a weird morning, I guess. Think I dreamt something, but I can’t remember. I was a cowboy.” She plops a straw into the bottle. “Dirk was there. I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t sound terrible. Maybe you’re worried about something?”

“No, not that it-” the bell sounds as the door swings open, and Cronus cuts himself off when he see the newcomers. His face shifts into a grin

 

If there ever was a hotter couple than him and Meenah, it’s Dirk and Roxy. Blonde, pretty-faced, a relaxed confidence in their walk. The only thing missing is them actually  _ looking _ like a couple. Today, however, Roxy is holding on to Dirk’s arm, so that’s  _ something.  _ It bothers him in a way he can’t quite pinpoint. Maybe he’s jealous of Dirk on some level. Probably. Porrim starts to say something but stops herself as they approach. Dirk reaches out a fist in greeting, bumping the side of his knuckles with Cronus’. 

“Hey, daddy-o.” 

Maybe he’s just overreacting about Meenah. Maybe she’s just in one of those places. Maybe it’s that time of the month. Roxy gives him a tight hug. “You owe me one, Cro,” she whispers over his shoulder, “he didn’t wanna go anywhere ‘cause he don’t like his hair today.” She pulls back and Cronus tries not to look at her rack as she fluffs up her curls. God, she’s got her blouse  _ that _ unbuttoned and Dirk might as well still be made out of marble for all practical intents and purposes?

 

“What’s new?” Dirk asks as Roxy twirls over to the counter. “I know this isn’t,” he nods to the jukebox, “so I assume it’s nothing of interest.”

Cronus shrugs. “Maybe this place is too... pale, but yeah. Essentially. We can check out the record store on Tuesday, see if there’s a broader selection.” He pauses, eyes lingering on Dirk. The rebelliously, perfectly imperfect jellyroll looks no different than usual. “Your hair’s good today, boss.”

Saying that Dirk  _ reacts  _ would be an overstatement, but he doesn’t stay completely stonefaced. He tilts his head a little, looking over to where Roxy is conversing with Porrim for a moment. “I don’t know. You sang the high praises of pomade so I decided to give it a try. Think I’ll stick with wax and hairspray, though.”

“I think it looks good. More organic.” As they speak, Roxy and Porrim move back to the table, grabbing an extra pair of chairs. “I’m not really about hairspray crust. Smells better, too.”

Dirk glances over at the table and the few people waving them over. “Suppose it does,” he hums. “Never thought about it before. Kinda surprised you’d notice, with how generous you tend to be with the cologne.”

Cronus rolls his eyes, pulling out a pack of Camel Straights from his back pocket. “That was ages ago. I’ve gotten better. And clearly future Mrs. Ampora over there don’t mind. And she’s pretty close up in my business- What?” Dirk’s eyebrow is pulled up over the edge of his shades, digging change out of his jeans for a can of Tang.

“Only my neverending bafflement over the fact that you still call her that.”

As if on cue, Meenah’s voice calls through the café. “Hey, Strider!”

Dirk’s eyes linger on Cronus for a moment, and he feels curiously naked. His face feels warm, and he looks away as he lights the cigarette. It’s like Dirk is standing just a step too close to him. As if he heard Cronus’ thoughts, Dirk starts to move away from Cronus and towards the group, and Cronus hesitates for a moment before speaking.

“Dirk- you’re like a brother to me, but you touch Meenah, and you’re dead.”

Dirk looks up, pushing a straw into the can. “Of all the reasons I have to fear for my death, I’m glad your vengeance isn’t one of them, then.”

There’s a hint of what might be a smirk on his lips, and Cronus feels his blush darken. He takes a few more minutes to aimlessly scroll through the jukebox while waiting for it to settle down before returning to the group.

 

\--

 

“You’re not seriously telling me you like Meenah?” The summer has barely begun, and it’s already far too hot to be outside. Cronus had suggested they go to the beach, but Dirk had wanted to work on his project. Cronus doesn’t get why he doesn’t just  _ buy  _ a radio instead. Though, to be fair, he’s kinda glad he doesn’t have to feel shitty about not working out, wearing swim trunks next to the likes of Rufioh.

“You’re reading too much into what I’m saying, Cronus.” Dirk doesn’t look up from his soon-to-be radio. “I said she was cool, which she is. Anyway, you should be more worried about whether  _ you  _ like her or not than what I think.”

Cronus hesitates for just a moment too long before replying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, boss.” Dirk looks up, pointedly raising an eyebrow over his shades. Cronus avoids the flare in the dark lenses, looking up at the ceiling instead. James Dean’s smoldering eyes looks back down on him. It strikes Cronus as an odd place to hang a poster. “She’s a babe, and you can’t deny we make one hell of a couple.” 

“Depends on how you define hell. And couple.” 

Dirk gets a glare for his effort, and the radio sparks with static. “She’s perfect for me, chief. We got history, we got tension, we got good names and a solid future. We got style, she’s exactly the kinda rebel girl to work with my groove. And we got chemistry. Which is more than what I can say about you and Roxy.” No response to that. Cronus looks back up at James Dean and his red jacket. “I don’t get it, honestly. I got a gal like that I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of her.” 

“I’m not sure that’s a matter of what kinda ‘gal’ you ‘have’. You can’t keep your hands off of Meenah either. Which she’s clearly not particularly thrilled about, judging by what you told me just now.”

“We look great together. I don’t get what her problem is.”

“Maybe it’s not about how you _ look _ together, ever thought about that?”

“Stop getting nitpicky about my wording, chief. I already told you, we got some great chemistry. She couldn’t even  _ wish  _ for better, and neither could I.” There’s a scraping sound as Dirk pushes out his chair. Cronus tears his eyes away from the poster, looking back at Dirk. Dirk and those stupid, cateye sunglasses. They’re almost the same model as Aranea’s, he realizes. “Like you’re one to talk anyway. At least me and Meenah touch each other.”

 

A moment of silence, and for a second he thinks he might’ve gone too far. But on the other hand, he tells Dirk everything. It wouldn’t hurt him to give some back every once in a while. “You don’t know that.” The silence that follows is filled with a lower volume static from the radio. Cronus frowns; what a shitty device. “I adore Roxy.”

“Sure, but are you into her?”

“Why’s it matter to you? Aren’t you busy letting Meenah make you cry and pretending you’re all about it?”

Cronus kind of wants to punch him. “Fine,” he hisses, “be that way.” 

 

\--

 

“You weren’t entirely off, you know” Cronus almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of Dirk testing the car’s engine.

“About what?”

“I don’t sleep with Roxy. Never did.” On the radio an ad plays, and Cronus recognize it as the one with that hair straightening product for black girls. That’s still sort of weird to him. “Not that it changes anything.”

“I don’t get you.”

“I don’t get you either.” Dirk straightens up. There are splatters of oil all the way up to his shoulders, competing with his freckles for space. Cronus finishes his bottle of Coke. “If you wanted to rebel, why did you pick the richest white girl in town just because she wears jeans? You said it yourself, she’ll succumb to the family business eventually.” On the radio, Babyface Billy welcomes his listeners back and tells them about that time he met Little Richard. Cronus rests the cool glass of the bottle against his lips, but doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Rumblespheres for the beta!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Roundandtalented and Rumblespheres for beta-ing this first chapter!


End file.
